Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [106]
Across the river, the catalyst could see the dark eyes of man-made caves glaring at him as if in reproach. Here, long ago, so Andon told him, the Technologists tore the stone containing iron out of the earth, using some sort of devilish substance that could literally blast rock to fragments. A skill now lost, Andon mentioned sadly. The Sorcerers now had to rely on iron ore left from that distant past.
And over and above every sound, the talking, the laughing, the crying, was the eternal, never-ending clanging that came from the forge, sounding through the village like a huge, dark bell.
Perversion of Life, screamed the catalyst in Saryon. They are destroying the magic! But the logical part within him answered, Survival. And perhaps it was that same logical part that Saryon caught toying with wonderful new mathematical concepts using this art. He had already noticed that the brick dwelling in which he lived was warmer and snugger than the dead, hollowed-out trees used by the Field Magi. Might not something be done …
Shocked to find himself thinking such things, Saryon forced his attention back to the old man.
“Yes, your adventures must have been quite terrifying. Captured by giants, fighting centaur, Simkin saving your life by transforming himself into a tree. I’d enjoy hearing your version someday, if it wouldn’t upset you to talk about it.” Andon smiled indulgently. “One hesitates believing Simkin.”
“Tell me something about Simkin,” Saryon said, glad to turn his mind to other matters. “Where did he come from? What do you know about him?”
“Know about Simkin? Nothing, really. Oh, there’s what he tells us, but that’s all nonsense, I suppose, like his tales about Duke So-and-So and the Countess of d’Something-or-Other.” Glancing at the catalyst, Andon added in a mild tone, “We don’t ask questions of those who come to make their home among us, Father. For example, one might wonder what a catalyst of the Font—as you so obviously are, if you forgive my saying so—was doing trying to cross the border into the Outland by himself.”
Flushing, Saryon stammered, “You see, I—”
The old man interrupted him. “No, I’m not asking. And you needn’t tell me. This has been our custom here—a custom that is as old as this settlement.” Sighing, Andon shook his head. His eyes were suddenly old and weary. “Perhaps it is not such a good custom,” he murmured, his gaze going to a large building that sat apart from the others on top of a small rise. Taller than the others, built out of the same rectangular, unnatural rock, the structure appeared newer than most in the settlement. “If we had asked questions, we might have avoided much sorrow and pain.”
“I don’t understand.” Saryon had noticed, during his recovery, a shadow lying over those who came to visit him—Andon, his wife, the Healer. They were nervous, talking in low voices sometimes, glancing about warily, as if fearful of being overheard. He had thought of asking, more than once, what the matter might be, recalling certain words of Simkin s. But he still felt a stranger among them and uncomfortable in his strange and dark surroundings.
“I told you I was the leader of my people here,” Andon said in such a low tone that Saryon had to bend down to hear him. The street they walked wasn’t crowded, but the old man seemed unwilling to risk the chance of even the few people hurrying along on their various errands overhearing his words. “That isn’t precisely true. I was once, years ago. But now another leads us.” He looked at Saryon out of the corner of his eye. “You will meet him soon. He’s been asking about you.”
“Blachloch,” said Saryon before he thought.
Stopping, the old man stared at him. “Yes, how did you—”
“Simkin told me … something